Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

NINETEEN

"SO how was your first day back?" Hayward asked, gamely sawing away at a chicken breast.

"Fine," D'Agosta replied.

"Singleton didn't give you a hard time?"

"Nope."

"Well, you were just out two days, which probably helped matters. He's intense-sometimes too intense-but he's a hell of a cop. So are you. That's why I know you two will get along."

D'Agosta nodded, pushed a piece of plum tomato around his plate, then lifted it to his mouth. Chicken cacciatore was the one recipe he could pull off without thinking-barely.

"This is pretty good, Vinnie. Really. I'll have to let you into the kitchen more often." And she smiled across the table.

D'Agosta smiled back. He put down his fork for a moment and just watched her eat.

She'd made a special effort to get home on time. She praised his cooking even though he'd overcooked the chicken. She hadn't even asked about his hasty departure from breakfast that morning. She was clearly making a special effort to give him some space and let him work out whatever he was working out. He realized, with a sudden upwelling of affection, that he really loved this woman.

That made what he was about to do all the harder.

"Sorry I can't do your dinner justice," she said. "It deserves to be lingered over. But I've got to rush out again."

"New developments?"

"Not really. The ligature specialist wants to brief us on the knots. Probably just a way of covering his ass-he hasn't been much help."

"No?"

"He thinks the knots are Asiatic, maybe Chinese, but that isn't narrowing it down very much."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. "Have you looked into the possibility I mentioned at the diner? That Pendergast's brother might be behind these murders?"

Hayward paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "There's so little evidence to support that theory that it verges on crank. You know I'm a professional. You have to trust me to conduct this case in the best way possible. I'll look into it when I have time."

There was nothing D'Agosta could say to this. They ate for a moment in silence.

"Vinnie," she said, and something in her tone made him look up at her again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's all right."

She was smiling again, and her dark eyes shone in the artificial light. "Because the fact is, I'm really happy you're back on the job."

D'Agosta swallowed. "Thanks."

"This crazy posthumous case of Pendergast's has just been a distraction for you at the worst possible time. He may have been a productive agent, but he wasn't-well, normal.I know you were a friend of his, but I think-" She paused. "I think he had an unhealthy influence on you. And then, this request from beyond the grave, all this stuff about his brother… I have to tell you, I resent that."

Despite everything, D'Agosta felt a stab of irritation. "I know you never liked the guy. But he got results."

"I know, I know. I shouldn't criticize the dead. Sorry."

The irritation was swept away by a sudden flood of guilt. D'Agosta said nothing.

"Anyway, all that's past. The Dangler case is high-profile, a great starter case. You're going to shine, Vinnie, I know you are. It'll be just like old times."

D'Agosta cut into a chicken thigh, then dropped his knife on the plate with a clatter. This was agony. He couldn't put it off any longer.

"Laura," he began. "There's no easy way to say this."

"Say what?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm moving out."

She froze, as if uncomprehending. Then a look slowly crept over her face: a look of disbelief and pain, like a child who had just been unexpectedly struck by a beloved parent. Seeing that expression, D'Agosta felt just about as bad as he'd ever felt in his life.

"Vinnie?" she asked, dazed.

D'Agosta lowered his eyes. There was a long, excruciating silence.

"Why?"

He didn't know what to say. He knew only that the one thing he could not do was tell her the truth. Laura, honey, I may be in danger. You're not a target, but I definitely am. And by staying here, I could put you in danger, as well.

"Is it something I've done? Something I haven't done?"

"No," he said immediately. He had to make up something, and with Laura Hayward, that something had better be good.

"No," he said again, more slowly. "You've been great. It has nothing to do with you. I really care about you. It has to do with me. Our relationship… maybe we started off just a little too fast."

Hayward did not reply.

D'Agosta felt like he was walking himself off a cliff. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to stay with this woman– this beautiful, caring, supportive woman. He'd rather hurt himself than her. And yet he washurting her, hurting her deeply, with every word. It was an awful thing to do, but he had no choice. Vincent, you must take every precaution possible.D'Agosta knew that the only way to save this relationship-and, perhaps, Laura Hayward's life-was by interrupting it.

"I just need a little space, that's all," he went on. "To think things through. Get some perspective on my life." The platitudes sounded hollow, and rather than continue, he stopped short.

He sat there, waiting for Hayward to blow up, curse him out, order him to leave. Yet there was only another long, awful silence. Finally, he looked up. Laura was sitting there, hands in her lap, dinner growing cold, her face pale and her eyes cast downward. Her beautiful blue-black hair had fallen forward, covering one eye. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected. This surprise, this hurt, was even worse than anger.

At last, she sniffed, rubbed a finger beneath her nose, pushed away her plate. Then she rose.

"I've got to get back to work," she said, so quietly D'Agosta barely heard her. He sat motionless as she brushed her hair away from her face. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door. It wasn't until her hand was on the doorknob that she stopped, realizing she'd forgotten her coat and her briefcase. She turned, walked slowly to the closet, shrugged into her coat, picked up the case. And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not look back.

D'Agosta sat at the dinner table for a long time, listening to the tick of the clock, to the faint street noises filtering up from below. Finally, he stood, brought the dishes into the little kitchen, threw the half-eaten dinners into the garbage, and washed up.

Then he turned and-feeling very old-headed for the bedroom to pack.

TWENTY

AT three o'clock in the morning, the boarded-up Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive looked asleep, perhaps even dead. But deep below the shuttered windows and double-locked doors, activity flickered in one of the basement tunnels cut into the Manhattan bedrock beneath the old house. The longest tunnel-actually a series of connected basement rooms-lay in a line due west, drilling beneath Riverside Drive and Riverside Park toward the Hudson River. At the end, a crude staircase spiraled down a natural cavity to a stone quay, where a watery tunnel led out past a small, weed-draped opening onto the river itself. More than two centuries before, the river pirate who owned the mansion's earlier incarnation had used this secret passage on nocturnal errands of mischief. Today, only a handful of people knew of the hidden entrance.

In this isolated spot, the soft lapping of oars could be heard. There was a faint plash as the green veil of weeds was lifted aside, exposing an underwater passage. It was a foggy, moonless night, and only the palest glint of light outlined a skiff as it entered the tunnel. Noiselessly, it slid forward beneath a low, rocky ceiling, easing up at last to the stone quay.

Pendergast stepped out of the skiff, tethered it to a cleat, and looked around, eyes glinting in the darkness. He remained still for several minutes, listening. Then he pulled a flashlight from his pocket, snapped it on, and headed up the staircase. At the top, he stepped out into a large room filled with wooden cases displaying weapons and armor, some modern, others dating back two thousand years. He passed through the room and into an old laboratory, beakers and retorts gleaming on long black-topped tables.

In one corner of the laboratory stood a silent, shadowy figure.

Pendergast came forward cautiously, one hand stealing toward his weapon. "Proctor?"

"Sir?"

Pendergast relaxed. "I got the signal from Constance."

"And I, in turn, got your message to meet here. But I must say I'm surprised to see you in person, sir."

"I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But as it happens, there's a message that I, in turn, must deliver to Constance, and it's one I felt had to be delivered in person."

Proctor nodded. "I understand, sir."

"From now on, it is vitalthat you keep a close eye on her. You know Constance, how fragile her mental condition is. How she appears on the surface is no indication at all of her true emotional state. You also know that she's been through what no other human being has. I fear that, if she is not treated with exceptional care and caution…"

His voice trailed off. After a moment, Proctor nodded again.

"This all couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm going to tell her that she needs to be ready at all times to return to thatplace… where she first hid from us. Where nobody, nobody,could ever find her."

"Yes, sir."

"You found the breach?"

"It has been found and sealed."

"Where was it?"

"It seems that a nineteenth-century sewer tunnel runs under Broadway, just beyond the basement fruit cellars. It has not been used for fifty years. He was able to penetrate the fruit cellars from that tunnel, knocking a hole in the pipe."

Pendergast looked at him sharply. "He didn't find the staircase leading to this sub-basement?"

"No. It seems he was in the house for only a few moments. He was there just long enough to take the item from a first-floor cabinet and leave."

Pendergast continued to look fixedly at Proctor. "You must make sure the mansion is perfectly sealed. This cannotbe allowed to happen again. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Good. Then let's go speak with her."

They passed out of the laboratory and through a series of chambers filled with glass-fronted cabinets and tall cases full of seemingly endless and impossibly eclectic collections: stuffed migratory birds, Amazonian insects, rare minerals, bottled chemicals.

At last, in a room full of butterflies, they stopped. Pendergast licked the flashlight over the ranks of display cases. Then he spoke quietly into the darkness.

"Constance?"

Only silence answered.

"Constance?" he said again, just a trifle louder.

There was a faint rustle of linen; then a woman of about twenty appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She wore a long, old-fashioned white dress with lace ruffling around the throat. Her delicate skin was very pale in the light of the flashlight.

"Aloysius," she said, embracing him. "Thank God."

For a moment, Pendergast simply held her close. Then he gently detached himself and turned away for a minute, twisting a small brass knob set into one wall. The chamber filled with faint light.

"Aloysius, what's the matter?" Her eyes-strangely wise for a face so young-grew anxious.

"I'll tell you in a moment." Pendergast placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me about the message."

"It arrived late this evening."

"Method of delivery?"

"It was slipped into a crack beneath the front door."

"You took the necessary precautions?"

Constance nodded. Then she reached into one of her sleeves and drew out a small ivory business card, carefully sealed inside a glassine envelope.

Pendergast took the card, turned it over. Diogenes Pendergastwas engraved in fine copperplate on the card's face: below that, in rose-colored ink, had been written: The Five of Swords is Smithback.

He stared at the card for a long moment. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket.

"What does it mean?" Constance asked.

"I hesitate to tell you more. Your nerves have been strained enough already."

Constance smiled faintly. "I must say, when you walked into the library, I was sure I was seeing a-a revenant."

"You know my brother's plans, how he intends to destroy me."

"Yes." Constance went even paler and for a moment seemed to stagger slightly. Pendergast placed his hand on her shoulder.

She mastered herself with effort. "I'm fine, thank you. Do go on."

"He has already begun. Over the last several days, three of my closest friends have been killed." Pendergast touched his jacket pocket. "This note from Diogenes puts me on notice that William Smithback is the next target."

"William Smithback?"

"He's a reporter for the New York Times."Pendergast hesitated again.

"And?" Constance asked. "There's something else troubling you– I can see it in your face."

"Yes. The first three who died were all very close to me. But that isn't the case with Bill Smithback. I've known him for several years. He was involved in three cases of mine, a very effective journalist. And despite an impulsive and somewhat careerist exterior, he is a good man. What troubles me, however, is that he's more an acquaintance than a friend. Diogenes is casting his net wider than I thought. It isn't just close friends who are at risk. And that makes the situation even more difficult than I thought."

"How can I help?" Constance asked in a low tone.

"By keeping yourself absolutely safe."

"You think-?"

"That you're a possible target? Yes. And there's something more. The third man to die was Michael Decker, an old FBI associate of mine. I found Mike's body yesterday, in his Washington house. He had been killed with an old bayonet. The modus operandi was a nod to a distant ancestor of mine, who died in a very similar fashion as an officer in Napoleon's army, during the Russian campaign of 1812."

Constance shivered.

"What concerned me was the weapon itself. Constance, that bayonet came from the collections of this very house."

She froze for a moment as the implications of this sank home. "The chasepot or the lebel?" she asked faintly, almost robotically.

"The chasepot. It had the initials P.S.P.engraved onto the quillon. Quite unmistakable."

But Constance did not reply. Her alert, intelligent eyes had sharpened, deepened, with fear.

"Diogenes has found entrance to this house. No doubt that was the message he intended to deliver to me with that particular bayonet."

"I understand."

"You're still safer within this house than without, and for now you are not in Diogenes's sights. Proctor here has found and sealed the weak point through which Diogenes entered, and as you know, this mansion has been hardened against intruders in many ways. Proctor will be ceaselessly vigilant, and he is more formidable than he looks. Still, you must be on constant guard. This is a very old and vast house. It has a great many secrets. You know those secrets better than anyone. Follow your instincts. If they tell you something is not right, melt into those recesses of the house that only you know. Be ready at a moment's notice. And until we can once again feel safe from this threat, I want you to sleep in that secret space where you first hid from me and from Wren."

At this, Constance's eyes went wide and wild. She clutched at Pendergast. "No!"she cried passionately. "No, I don't ever want to go back there again!"

Pendergast immediately put his arms around her. "Constance-"

"You know how it reminds me of thattime! The dark spaces, the terrible things… I don't wish to be reminded, ever again!"

"Constance, listen to me. You'll be safe there. And I can't do what needs to be done without knowing you're safe."

Constance did not respond, and Pendergast pressed her more tightly. "Will you promise me that?"

She laid her forehead against his chest.

"Aloysius," she said, her voice breaking. "It was just a few months ago we sat in the library, upstairs. You read to me from the newspapers. Do you remember?"

Pendergast nodded.

"I was beginning to comprehend.I felt like a swimmer, coming to the surface after being so long underwater. I want that again. I don't want to go… to go downagain. You do understand, don't you, Aloysius?"

Pendergast caressed her brown hair gently. "Yes, I understand. And everything will be as you want it, Constance. You will get better, I promise. But we must get through this first. Will you help me do that?"

She nodded.

Slowly, Pendergast lowered his arms. Then he took her forehead between his hands and, bringing her close, kissed it gently. "I must go."

And he turned, darted back into the waiting darkness, and was gone.

TWENTY-ONE

IT was quarter to eight when Smithback emerged from his apartment building, glanced up West End Avenue, and stretched out his hand for a taxi. A beat-up yellow cab that had been idling at the far end of the block pulled forward obediently, and Smithback got in with a sigh of regret.

"Forty-fourth and Seventh," he said. The driver-a thin, olive-skinned man with black hair and a bad complexion-muttered a few words in some unknown tongue and screeched away from the curb.

Smithback settled back, glancing out at the passing cityscape. By rights, he should still be in bed, arms around his new wife, deliriously asleep. But the image of Harriman, sitting in their editor's office with that insufferably smug look on his face, had spurred him into rising early to flog the story some more.

You'll both share information and leads,Davies had said. Hell with that. Smithback knew Harriman wasn't planning to share jack shit, and for that matter neither was he. He'd check in at the office, make sure nothing disagreeable had happened overnight, and then hit the pavement. The article he'd turned in the night before had been weak, and he had to get something better. He hadto, even if it meant buying a damn apartment in Duchamp's building. Now, there was an idea: calling a real estate agent and posing as a prospective buyer…

The driver turned sharply left onto 72nd. "Hey, watch it," Smithback said. "I'm nursing a war wound back here." For once, the driver had closed the shield of Plexiglas that separated the front from the back. The cab stank of garlic, onions, and cumin, and Smithback opened the rear window. As usual, the damn thing only went down about a third of the way. Smithback's mood, already low, fell lower.

It was probably just as well he'd left the apartment ninety minutes early. Nora had been in a foul mood for several days now, getting hardly any sleep and working at the museum until well past midnight. That, plus the frosty exchange between her and Margo Green the other night at the Bones, was weighing on him heavily. Margo was an old friend and it pained him the two didn't get along. They're too much alike,he thought. Strong-willed and smart.

Ahead lay the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Instead of turning south onto the highway and heading toward Midtown, the driver gunned the cab up the merge ramp onto the northbound lanes.

"What the hell?" Smithback said. "Hey, you're going the wrong way!"

In response, the driver jammed down harder on the accelerator, veering past blaring horns and into the far left lane.

Shit, the guy's English is worse than I thought.Smithback pounded on the heavy shield of scratched Plexiglas. "You're going the wrong way. Okay? The– wrong– way.I said 44th Street. Get off at 95th and turn around!"

The driver didn't respond. Instead, he continued to accelerate, weaving in and out of lanes as he passed car after car. The 95th Street exit came and went in a flash.

Smithback's mouth went dry. Jesus, am I being kidnapped or something?He grabbed for the door lock, but as with most cabs the outer knob had been removed and the pull itself was engaged, sunk beneath the level of the window frame.

He renewed his frantic tattoo against the Plexiglas shield. "Stop the car!" he yelled as the cab squealed around a bend. "Let me out!"

When there was no answer, Smithback reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to dial 911.

"Put that thing away, Mr. Smithback," came the voice from the front seat. "You're in good hands, I assure you."

Smithback froze in the act of dialing. He knew that voice: knew it well. But it certainly didn't belong to the Mediterranean-looking man in the front seat.

"Pendergast?" he said incredulously.

The man nodded. He was looking in the rearview mirror, scanning the cars behind them.

The fear abated-slowly, slowly-to be replaced by surprise. Pendergast,Smithback thought. Oh, God. Why do I get a sinking feeling every lime I run into him?

"So the rumors were wrong," he said.

"Of my death? Most certainly."

Smithback guessed they were going at least a hundred miles an hour. Cars were flashing past, vague shapes and blurs of color.

"You mind telling me what's going on? Or why you're in disguise? You look like a fugitive from a Turkish prison-if you don't mind my saying so," he added hastily.

Pendergast glanced again in the rearview mirror. "I'm taking you to a place of safety."

This didn't immediately register. "You're taking me where?"

"You're a marked man. There's a dangerous killer after you. The nature of the threat forces me to take unusual measures."

Smithback opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Alarm, incredulity, astonishment, mingled in equal measures within him. The 125th Street exit passed in a heartbeat.

Smithback found his voice. "Akiller after me? What for?"

"The more you know, the more dangerous it will be for you."

"How do you know I'm in danger? I haven't pissed off anybody– not lately, anyway."

To the left, the North River Control Plant shot by. Glancing uneasily to his right, Smithback thought he caught the briefest glimpse of 891 Riverside Drive-ancient, shadow-haunted-rising above the greenery of Riverside Park.

The car was moving so fast now the tires barely seemed to touch the road. Smithback looked around for a seat belt, but the cab had none. Cars flashed past as if stationary. What the hell kind of an engine does this thing have?He swallowed. "I'm not going anywhere until I know what's going on. I'm a married man now."

"Nora will be fine. She'll be told you're on assignment for the Timesand will be incommunicado for a while. I'll see to that myself."

"Yeah, and what about the Times?I'm in the middle of an important assignment."

"They will hear from a doctor of your sudden, serious illness."

"Oh, no. No way. The Timesis a dog-eat-dog place. It doesn't matter if I'm sick or dying, I'll lose the assignment."

"There will be other assignments."

"Not like this one. Look, Mr. Pendergast, the answer is– shit!"

Smithback braced himself as the cab whipped around a cluster of cars, weaving across three lanes, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear-ending a lumbering truck and shooting back into the fast lane. Smithback gripped the seat, silenced by terror.

Pendergast glanced once again in the rearview mirror. Looking around, Smithback could see-four or five cars back-a black Mercedes, weaving in and out of the traffic, pacing them.

Smithback faced forward again, feeling a rush of panic. Ahead on the shoulder, an NYPD cruiser had pulled over a van and the officer was out writing a ticket. As they flew past, Smithback saw the cop whirl around in disbelief, then run back to his cruiser.

"For God's sake, slow down,"he choked out, but if Pendergast heard him, he gave no response.

Smithback glanced back again. Despite the awful speed, the black Mercedes wasn't falling behind. If anything, it seemed to be gaining. It had heavily tinted windows, and he could not make out the driver.

Ahead were signs for Interstate 95 and the George Washington Bridge. "Brace yourself, Mr. Smithback," Pendergast said over the roar of the engine and the screaming of wind.

Smithback seized a door handle, planted his feet on the plastic floor mats. He was so frightened he could hardly think.

Traffic had begun to thicken as the two-lane exit approached, one stream of cars heading for the bridge and New Jersey, the other heading eastward toward the Bronx. Pendergast slowed, alternatelywatching the traffic ahead and the Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Then, seizing an opportunity, he sheared across all four lanes of traffic onto the right shoulder. A squeal of brakes and a torrent of angry horns erupted, Doppler-shifting lower as Pendergast jammed on the accelerator again, blasting up the narrow shoulder, sending loose trash and hubcaps flying behind them.

"Holy shit!" Smithback yelled.

Ahead, the shoulder narrowed, the curb of the median angling in from the right. But instead of slowing, Pendergast pushed the car relentlessly forward. The tires on the passenger side reared up onto the curb and the vehicle charged ahead at an unwieldy angle, rocking crazily back and forth, tires squealing, the stone wall of the exit perilously close at hand.

From behind came the faint wail of a siren.

Pendergast braked abruptly, then turned into a brutal, four-wheel power slide, just merging into a hole in the traffic converging on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. He changed lanes once-so fast Smithback was thrown sideways on the seat-twice, a third time, darting back and forth, all the while accelerating. The car blasted along beneath the hulking apartments like a bullet through the barrel of a gun.

A quarter mile ahead, a sea of red lights winked back out of the gloom as traffic bunched up in the inevitable gridlock of the Cross Bronx Expressway. The right-hand lane was blocked off by orange cones, signs announcing a highway repair project that-typically– was empty and unmanned. Pendergast veered into the lane, scattering cones left and right.

Smithback glanced back. The black Mercedes was still there, no more than six cars back, pacing them despite all Pendergast could do. Much farther behind now were two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Suddenly, Smithback was thrown to one side. Pendergast had abruptly veered onto the off-ramp for the Harlem River Drive. Instead of slowing, he maintained a speed close to a hundred miles an hour. With a shriek of stressed rubber, the car drifted sideways, its flank contacting the stone retaining wall that encircled the ramp.

There was a scream of ripping steel, and an explosion of sparks flew backward.

"Son of a bitch! You're going to kill-!"

Smithback's voice was cut off as Pendergast braked violently once again.With a bucking motion, the car shot over a divider onto the opposing entrance helix to a small bridge spanning the Harlem River. The vehicle fishtailed wildly before Pendergast regained control. Then he accelerated yet again as they shot over the river and into a tangle of narrow streets leading toward the South Bronx.

Heart in mouth, Smithback glanced once again over his shoulder. Impossibly, the Mercedes was still there, farther back now but gaining once again. Even as he watched, the driver's window of the Mercedes opened and there was a sudden puff of smoke, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

With a thunk!,the passenger side mirror vanished in a spray of glass and plastic, annihilated by a high-caliber bullet.

"Shit!" Smithback screamed.

"Get down," Pendergast said, but Smithback was already on the floor, hands over his head.

From this position, the nightmare was even worse: unable to see anything, Smithback could only imagine the chaos of the chase, the violent changes of direction, the screeching of tires, the roar of the engine, the blaring of horns, snatches of cursing in English and Spanish. And above it all, the ever-growing wail of police sirens. Again and again, he was thrown forward against the undersupports of the front seat as Pendergast braked violently; again and again, he was thrown back as the agent accelerated.

After a few endless minutes, Pendergast spoke again. "I need you to get up, Mr. Smithback. Do so carefully."

Smithback rose, gripping the seat. The car was racing along a wide avenue through an impoverished barrio of the Bronx, darting from left to right. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the Mercedes still pacing them, swerving back and forth among slow-moving delivery vans and lowriders. Farther back were strung out at least half a dozen police cars.

"We're going to be stopping in a moment," Pendergast said. "It is imperative that you follow me out of the car as quickly as possible."

"Follow-?" Smithback was so terrorized his mind had stopped working.

"Just do as I say, please. Stay right behind me. Rightbehind me. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Smithback croaked.

Ahead, the road ended in a vast fence of barbed wire and metal pipe, interrupted only by a heavy gate directly before them. The fence enclosed at least five acres of cars, SUVs, and vans, squeezed impossibly close to one another, extending from one end of the fence to the other, a sea of vehicles, all makes and models and vintages. They were all packed so tightly not even a scooter could get between them. Atop the gate was a battered sign that read Division of Motor Vehicles– Mott Haven Impound Facility.

Pendergast plucked a small remote control from one pocket and punched a code onto its keypad. Slowly, the gate began to open. When Pendergast did not reduce speed, Smithback clasped the door handle again and clenched his teeth.

The car blew past the gate with an inch to spare and, with a shuddering squeal of brakes, spun sideways and stopped at the wall of cars. Without bothering to turn off the engine, Pendergast leaped out and took off, with a brusque wave for Smithback to follow. The reporter tumbled out of the backseat and dashed after Pendergast, who was already running through the maze of cars. They made directly for the rear of the facility, running and dodging through the sea of parked vehicles. Smithback could barely keep up with the agent flying along in front of him.

It was close to a half-mile sprint to the rear wall of the impound facility. At last, Pendergast stopped at the final row of vehicles, which were parked a few dozen yards in from the rear of the yard, blocked by the same heavy steel pipe fence. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a battered Chevy van parked in the last row and gestured for Smithback to get in the back. Pendergast leaped behind the wheel, turned the key, and the van roared to life.